


Prove True To My Emptiness

by anotherinsanedevotion



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: A Lot of Non-Canonical Backstory, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Incest, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherinsanedevotion/pseuds/anotherinsanedevotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are Charles Hansen, more familiarly known as Chuck. You were born August 14, 2003. That was when you had a mother and you had a father."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prove True To My Emptiness

**Author's Note:**

> Let me just apologize for all the run-on sentences and copious amounts of italics and the awful summary and mistakes in HTML. I hate doing summaries and I am afraid it was misleading...  
> I did a bit of research, but there are definitely mistakes and I took quite a few liberties. Sorry. Also, the OMC does not play a huge part, so don't worry.
> 
> Title taken from "Despite What You've Been Told" by the Two Gallants.

You are Charles Hansen, more familiarly known as Chuck. You were born August 14, 2003. That was when you had a mother and you had a father.

* * *

It is four days before your tenth birthday when the first kaiju attacks. Your mother has a party planned and you have friends coming and your father is going to make an appearance and you are excited about something because you are a child.

You and your mother sit around the television, surrounded by unopened gifts and uneaten cake and unpopped balloons; and watch as the aptly named _“Trespasser”_ breaks down the Golden Gate Bridge, over and over and over because anyone who could possibly take more videos or pictures is dead.  
And you are mystified by the monster. And you are excited and terrified and is this even real? And your mother looks to you, with tears in her eyes, and tells you that yes...yes it is.  
And you are not sure why she is crying because you are nine and the idea of death has barely entered your head.

Though you don’t understand why she is crying, you know what to do when someone begins to cry because your mother has done the same thing for you many times. You scoot in closer and grab her hand and lean against her shoulder and tell her you love her and it will be okay. And you truly believe it and you don’t understand why her shoulders shake and her tears begin to fall faster and faster.

* * *

You are twelve now and are at school. Sirens are blaring and everyone else’s parents have come to take their children away and you are the last one there. Your teacher, who was supposed to stay, left an hour ago and you are now curled under her desk, your head pulled close to your chest, hands tightly covering your ears.  
Maybe you scream _mom!_ Maybe you scream _dad!_ but you know which one you want the most.  
The door slams open and you peek your head out from beneath your desk and your father sees you and his face is filled with relief and love and pain and regret and you are too young to understand what all this means. You just rush into his arms and he pulls you close and you know everything is okay. _It will always be okay_ because you are a child and you have so much trust in the goodness of the world.

Your father picks you up and swings you over his shoulder and you hang down and watch his back and if you were older, you would see how tense he is. How unsure his steps are. Instead you can only think of how happy you are to see him. How he came in like the father you have always wanted. Like the father your mother has always believed you to deserve. Because of your age, you are too young to see the shine of unshed tears. But it’s okay. You shouldn’t have to see that right now.

A day later and you have no mother and you have the shattered remains of a father. He holds you as you sob and you scream and you hate him and you don’t know why. Your small fists beat against his chest; not enough to hurt and in that moment, you swear to yourself and your mother that you will become strong enough to hurt your father. Strong enough to make him feel everything that you feel now.

* * *

You are thirteen when your father leaves you at your grandparent’s house. You are old enough to look into his face and call him wretched names that should never leave lips like yours. And he is old enough and tired enough to take it, accept it, treasure it as the only kind of exchange you will willingly have with him.

He drops your heavy bag in an empty bedroom and turns to look at you. But he has nothing to say and you are too emotionally stunted to share your thoughts and he passes you to go down the stairs. Without thinking, you grab his arm because you don’t want him to leave you here with people you barely know in a house where there are no happy memories for you. But your eyes cannot relate anything but resentment for your father and he only shakes you off and continues to the steps.  
You fall to your knees on the dirty carpet and your tears drop and make marks in the dust. You are reminded of your promise to yourself and your fists ball up and they are still so small and imperfect and unmarred. And they cannot hurt another human. Not yet.  
And you are too involved in making promises that should never be made, to notice your father standing on the top step, watching and crying, his shoulders shaking with the effort of not making a sound.

* * *

At age fifteen, you are in the Jaeger Academy. Your fists are larger now, perfect in your eyes; and your only wish is to hurt your father with them. Fulfill that promise you made to your dead mother. Pushing away the idea that she would have wanted you to be at peace with him. Would have wanted you to love him. But you haven’t seen him in person since you were thirteen and he left you with your grandparents. You will never forget what he whispered to them, not assuming that you are there in the shadows; trying to get one last glimpse of the man who is no longer your father.

_“I just don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know how to look at him and see my son.”_

You are fifteen and you still don’t understand what that means. You will never assume that he is speaking of how much you look like your mother or that he is speaking of all the regret he felt when he chose you instead of your mother and the regret that turned to shame because why the _fuck_ was he questioning choosing his son.

* * *

Here you are in the Academy combat room, standing straight, waiting to see who you are compatible with. Your stomach is fraught with nerves and your fingers are tapping at your sides. You watch the others on the mat, their staffs slamming into bare skin. Here, bruises mean more than physical relationships.  
Looking around the room, you wonder who you will be paired up with. You catch several eyes and their owners offer small smiles. How terrified are they? you wonder. This is the final test to decide who will die in a Jaeger and who will die much closer to the dirt they will be buried in.

When you look up, your stomach drops. Your father stands beside your teacher, looking for all the world as if he isn’t there for anyone. As if he has no child burdening him to the ground.  
 _Dad,_ you want to call out to him, but you are not a child any more. And he is not your father. He is not looking at you and you are happy for that. Your fingers are balled up into fists and the fear in your stomach has congealed into anger. Your father is whispering to the instructor whose eyes are traveling around the room. Those eyes land on you and a hand comes up to point.

When your father catches your eyes, you notice that his eyes are no longer dim and pained. They are sharp and guarded and they hurt you with their gaze. You feel like you are twelve again, and completely alone in your old classroom and this time, no one is coming to save you. But no! You will not let him make you feel that way. You spent your last three years feeling that way and the time for that is done. He is not your father anymore. He lost that right many years before.

 _“Hansen, you’re up.”_ your teacher says and tosses the staff to you. Your reflexes are dulled by surprise and anger and you almost drop it and you swear you can hear your fellow trainees laugh. You can imagine what they are saying.

_“Hansen’s dad shows up and suddenly he’s all fucked up. Brilliant piece of shit with daddy issues.”_

You grit your teeth and step onto the mat, forcing yourself not to look for your partner. To your surprise, your father joins you on the mat. You look at his face and long to see discomfort on it. Or...anything other than cold unfamiliarity. But your father is indifferent and you are reminded of when you were thirteen and he left you with his parents and you hadn’t heard from him since and you were so alone and you cried when you thought no one could hear you.  
 _He did that to you,_ your mind tells you and you listen to it blindly. You strike out with no purpose or any of that technique that was drilled into you and you are on your back before you even know it. Your father is on top of you and you are immediately discomfited.  
You push him off and get up on your feet, staff fixed firmly in front of you. You won’t let him put you down again. You rush at him again, but put much more force into it this time. You feel joy when his eyes widen in surprise. His staff comes up to block but you push it aside and land your first strike against his side. He cannot hide the quiet noise of surprise and you feel strength in yourself and in your power and you feel, for the very first time, that you are better than the man in front of you. You are stronger than him.

* * *

You stare at your teacher as he congratulates you. You are to be your father’s co-pilot. You cannot get out of the room fast enough when he releases you. Your teeth are grinding and your blood is cold and you rush to your room and are met with him.  
Your fist flies toward his face and there is a split second when his hand comes up to grab your wrist before it connects but the second is gone and the hand has dropped and blood is leaking from his nose and you are staring at your hand as if wondering how it could wound a man like him. But he is just that; a man and you are a man as well.  
As he bleeds on your floor, he says one thing.

_“You are your father’s son.”_

* * *

It is May 2023 now, and you have no mother and no father. You have a co-pilot and a dog and a Jaeger that you consider to belong only to you no matter who piloted it before you or who pilots with you.  
You have battle scars and bruises and a large ego, created to hide behind. Along with your abrasive manner, you manage to keep everyone further than an arm’s length away. You have had no girlfriends; taken no lovers. When you were growing up, _when you had a mother and you had a father,_ everything and everyone was sexualized and sex was pressed up against a person’s mind and fucked raw and your friends were talking about it and you were thinking about it and now, when you have the chance to be with anyone, you simply cannot. And they call you weak, gay, impotent when they hear of another woman you turned down.

But you are intrigued by an idea. An idea that becomes something more when you return the interest given to you from one of the Striker Eureka crew and you two bond over the sheer beauty of your Jaeger and the displeasure in Herc’s face when he sees you with him and it’s perfect when he murmurs _“Come on. We’re almost there,”_ and you follow because you are still young and so goddamn trusting and you really should know better. When he pushes you up against the wall, you are alarmed but oh so wanting and his fingers are actually on your bare skin and you love the rush of the touch.

Your shirt bunches up under his hands and his calloused fingers are scratching lightly on your scarred skin. His lips are pressed roughly against your own and you are gasping in his mouth and his tongue is against yours and you are so _embarrassingly_ hard against the knee pressed between your legs. You can feel yourself leaking in your pants and you know there will be a wet spot on his pants and you could not care less because this is what you want. But it is not what you need and you are too young to understand that and you are too trusting and wanting against his solidness.

 _He is there._ He is not your mother who went away far too soon, and he is not your father who left you with grandparents that could hardly remember how to care for themselves. He is in front of you and he _wants you_ and the rush is intoxicating and when he pushes hard on your shoulders, brings you face to face with his zipper; you don’t even think as you unfasten his pants and put your mouth on him.

The taste is appalling on your tongue but you continue because _you are your father’s son_ and you don’t leave things undone. His hands tangle in your short hair and you whimper quietly when he pulls too hard but you don’t let up for a moment and your mouth is unforgiving and harsh and fast and perfect in his eyes and you know this because you look up at him and he is looking down at you and his face says _everything._  
You know he is happy to have _Chuck Hansen_ on his knees, but you don’t really care because this is what you need to anchor yourself to the present. And you hope and you pray with sick resolve as he slicks himself and slides into you; that Herc will see this in the Drift.  
When you come, there is a name on your lips. One you will never let anyone hear when they have you like this. Naked and dripping and soft and vulnerable.  
His dry lips find your shoulder and he slips out of you. You rest against the wall and barely notice the wet rasp of a washcloth on your legs. When he hands you your clothes, you pull them on and leave before he can say anything to you; even though you know he won’t.

* * *

Your father does see it in the Drift but he says nothing, does nothing but clench his jaw and allow his eyes to move past you, completely ignoring you. You make him sick when all you want is to make him want you and you are too naive to understand that a one night stand with someone else will not make your father stumble into the abyss that is filial incest. And it is such a dark and lovely pit, but your father has so many promises and a lack of moral ambiguity to keep him from it.  
And your naivety and lack of experience keeps you from noticing his subtle glances as you strip out of your drive suit, or his few lingering touches on your shoulder before you jerk away from him because you are both thinking the same thing but one of you is wanting and the other is self-loathing and sometimes both feelings can be attributed to you Hansens.

* * *

You are twenty-one when you and your father are removed from the Sydney Shatterdome and moved to the one in Hong Kong. You are still on a high from the battle with Mutavore and the recommissioning of Striker. The idea of leaving Sydney barely fazes you; you will go wherever the fight is, wherever Striker goes, wherever your father wants to go.

There is something so startling about being around all these Jaegers. They are all gorgeous, terrifying machines and you barely resist the urge to run around to each and every one of them to run your fingers along their steel siding. But you’ve never been one to follow your wandering fingertips, and there are other things to do and see.

Something about Raleigh Becket immediately rubs you the wrong way, and you don’t mind letting him know that. You know his history; who could get by living without knowing all about the Becket brothers? But you have little sympathy for him; the ability to empathize with someone being something you lack.  
A part of you honestly hates him. You hate your father’s familiarity with him, hate seeing how easy it is for your father to relate to him and be around him. There is no sign of the unease and tension he has around you. There is no second thought as to whether he should touch Raleigh. He comforts with no worries of it going any further. And you are disgusted by how much it really bothers you.

You want your father’s hands on you. You want to feel his stubble against your skin. You want everything he has to offer and more beside and you know you will never get it and so you _take and take_ whatever you can.  
And if you moan and shiver under your own touch, then what does it matter? If you imagine your father when you spill into your hand, who will try to take that away from you? And if he sees and falters in the Drift, if his own mind drifts to moments of weakness like that, it only adds fuel to your own desires.  
And Raleigh forces you to realize more about yourself, about what you want out of life; and it terrifies you how put together he is despite everything he’s been through and everything he’s seen and heard and you wish you could be that but you can’t and you won’t so you bite at his throat when he leaves it bare if only to remind him that the world is dark and painful.  
But the more you press at Becket, the more your father presses at you and the more you are brought to your knees in your own mind. Forced to see beyond yourself and see into other people and the sight is glorious.

But when you have the potential to be better, to be more than what you and your father and this _vicious_ world have made you to be; it is all taken away from you.

* * *

Your hands shake as you stand in the lift with the Marshal. Your eyes are filled with tears, but it’s been so long since you’ve cried and you barely remember how and you just let them alone even as they wind down your face to your chin and drop to the floor.  
You know where you are going and you know what you are doing, but you still aren’t sure how it is going to end. You have so many hopes for this. You want to live and breathe and hold Max and touch Herc and fall asleep beside him and tongue every scar he has, but you know what has to be done and what you are and what the Marshal is and you know even while you don’t, what is going to happen.

You follow Pentecost into Striker’s conn-pod and take your place on the left side and it feels so wrong to not have your father on your right, but you bite back the comments you want to make. The Marshal feels like he has you pegged in his stereotype, and you don’t feel like filling that role right now.

You hear Choi’s voice and you prepare yourself to be pulled into the Drift. You push back any irritation at the fact that you will not see anything of Stacker. No revelations of the man to meet and meld with yours. But he will see you flayed open and vulnerable and maybe he will see your hand on yourself as you fall into completion and maybe he will see that crew member from so many years ago as he fucked you against the wall. You almost wish he could see Herc making love to you gently, but the Drift does not show fantasies or dreams but truths in the cold light of day.

* * *

Striker is broken and open and dying and you are in pain and there are tears in your eyes again. Your helmet is tossed away and you are staring at Stacker as he prepares to push that button. And your hand slaps his away. He turns to stare at you, face unreadable and you can see your own face reflected in his dark eyes and you just want to sob brokenly because you look like a child and you haven’t been a child since you were twelve and you had a mother and you had a barely there father.

_“You don’t need to die, Ranger.”_

You just shake your head because that is precisely why you need to die. You are a Ranger and a Ranger does not leave the conn-pod alone. You are a Ranger and a Ranger’s Jaeger is his grave. Beside his co-pilot, a Ranger is happy to die.

He just sighs and flicks the switch to speak to LOCCENT. You hear him speaking to Tendo and your father and Mako and Raleigh and all you can think of is the silence that is your father. And you cannot imagine not seeing him again. But here is the day you die and you know it and your legs grow weak but you are kept standing by your drive suit and you want to curse and scream but you stay silent because you are your father’s son in this moment more than any other.

_“Chuck.”_

_“Dad,”_ is all you say and all you need to say because while you know everything he wants to tell you, he knows everything you have ever wanted to say and do and _goddamnit_ the regret is washing up over you and it is overwhelming and then you and Stacker press the button and everything is wonderfully, beautifully _gone._

* * *


End file.
